Limits
by skyspireskit3
Summary: A BrucexJoker fic in three acts. Final part: Busted!
1. Chapter 1

The first part of my new story. No, this is not the chaptered BrucexJoker fic I promised earlier, that one is still under construction.

* * *

She's running

stumbling, tripping  
through wet neon reflections  
ankles clumsy in their stiletto traps.  
When did it stop raining?  
Her eyes roll in raw white fear.  
There's a man behind her  
and he has  
wire cutters.

It was just a regular  
Friday night  
take another call, keep them coming, hope  
maybe this one will be gentle.  
It's not fair  
_this_ guy was nice, family man with no family left,  
he had coke and even let her take the top.  
He had a nice house,  
kid too, cute kid, watching from the doorframe, not bothered by any of it.  
Maybe the kid  
is dead too now,  
she doesn't know.  
She had gone into the bathroom, only for a minute, when she heard  
breaking sounds, the kid screaming, and then blood  
came slithering under her door like snakes.  
She looked out and saw  
her customer on the floor, resting in a red pool  
and the short weird guy with  
the dripping wire cutters  
and she ran.  
Even drugged,  
she knew  
_It's the Cutter._

The Cutter.  
The phantom skulking the headlines  
of Gotham's papers for weeks.  
He likes to cut, to torture, to maim  
and he likes an audience, letting the children  
alive enough to watch, to remember,  
soft little minds  
left forever in muted little shreds.  
_She_ wasn't worried, at least the trouble wasn't  
for prostitutes for once  
she thought she was safe.  
Now she's going to die  
because she _saw_  
and _she_'s not so young  
that she'll just shut down and keep quiet.

Running, now  
the coke is still with her,  
she doesn't remember taking so much.  
It's making her slow, swathing her mind  
in its choking white vapors.  
_When_  
did it stop  
raining?

And she's falling hard  
feeling cold pavement burn  
through the fog of wet and coke.  
She sees the Cutter man  
rising up over,

she

can't

_scream—_

when a rush of black water  
knocks him away.

--

Something is  
roaring  
in the Batman's ears.

Weeks  
weeks of searching, fighting  
through people who were once allies, digging and coming up with  
only the sickening cackled promise  
of worse tomorrow.  
Ten children, all sitting silent  
in their pale hospital beds  
eyes reflecting nothing, nothing ever again, after taking in  
the gurgling slow deaths of those  
they loved most  
at the Cutter's hands.  
Batman looked at those children,  
their emptied stares not seeing him.  
Eyes he remembers well  
from the surfaces  
of mirrors long, long ago.

As the Cutter chased the prostitute,  
Batman heard and pursued.  
The Cutter doesn't wear a mask, he likes the little children  
to remember him. Batman knows the face  
from countless flashes  
of police sketches on the strangled news,  
the only way besides hacking (all for the good) he can keep up  
with the happenings of Gotham  
through the PD anymore.

As Batman landed hard on the Cutter,  
seeing the skin-real face for the first time  
too frail to be a killer's, too frail  
all the faces of the children, the helplessness, the sour horror hate towards  
this, and all the evil  
that thrives in this city and spews out  
such broken dolls  
lashing through him like a red-hot blizzard  
and the world fades out for a while.

From far off, he can hear the hard squelching of his fists  
into flesh turned gruel, hear squealing  
dying away.  
His sight is black, all he hears  
is the roaring  
(his?).  
He doesn't hear the footsteps  
coming up behind  
until the blow smashes into the side of his head.

He hits a puddle  
struggles up again, dazed, shaking off  
chewing ink blots and rainwater from his vision.

Standing there  
is the Joker.

The Joker has time for one word, a word Batman  
doesn't, can't understand  
"No,"  
before the roar uncoils from Batman's brain, erupting up his throat  
and he's hurtling towards  
his mortal foe,  
the true evil incarnate.

The hits crunch into the stick-weaves  
of the Joker's bones, he takes them, evades and weaves, and  
snapping like a wolf  
into the vigilante's face  
he answers back with his own kind of pain.

The killer Cutter Man, dragging  
broken bones, broken everything  
crawls away as behind him  
the alley walls quake, unable to contain  
so much demon fury.

Knives rip between armor plates, but still  
the Joker is falling back  
against the swirling storm that is Batman.  
The clown spits through blood-browned teeth, "Look at you _go_,"  
braced to meet another fist  
when the cowl whirls at the Cutter's escape.  
Batman throws his opponent away, rising after  
but he's hardly moved  
when the Joker's howl rips the air like a bullwhip:  
"_NO!"_  
And with a Devil's strength he's tackling  
Batman back to the ground.  
Batman gets him pinned, but still  
the maniac won't let go,  
and the damned Cutter slips away  
into the seams of the shadows.  
"The _way_ you are now," the Joker hisses, "you'll kill 'im!"  
"WHAT DO _YOU_ CARE?!"  
"You might say…I've had a change of h-"  
Batman's fist dents the concrete an inch  
from the Joker's smeared mask, which knots into the snarl  
of a jackal to a gun. "IT HAS TO BE _ME!_"

Batman's next blow stops dead.

"You are going," the Joker gasps,  
"to break that damn rule  
an' no amount of… prep talk to the mirror …  
is gonna change that. But when  
you do,  
it _has_  
to be _me_."  
"_Why?!"_  
The Joker stops struggling, eyes like green flames. "Because as soon as you do  
you  
will  
_break_.  
And you  
will _run_  
away…from your _precious_ city…  
and away…  
from _me_."

Just like that  
the fury dies  
sighing back down to soot.  
Batman looks  
at the madman beneath him, feeling  
every wardrum pulse shaking through them  
and in their exhaustion,  
they are only men.

Batman raises the Joker onto his knees,  
and kneels facing him, growling  
half for the Joker's ear  
half for his own,  
"You will _never_ break me."  
Then,  
knowing what he's doing  
and not giving a damn  
he pulls him  
into his cloaked shoulder.

They both know it's there:  
…_And you'll never lose me._

By the time the police get there  
both men are long gone,  
leaving only  
the blood on the pavement,  
and a half-drugged  
young prostitute  
who no one will ever believe.

* * *

Next part coming soon. Do you want it? Please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you thank you thank you to everyone who has given me reviews so far! Please, please, please keep them coming!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

It's 2 am.

Instead of going home  
the way he is and with whom  
Bruce goes the penthouse he still keeps  
for just such occasions.  
He sits at the kitchen counter, threading new stitches  
into the yawning lips of new wounds.  
Most are from the Joker's daggers, but one or two came earlier  
from the yapping guns of Gotham PD. They're shooting him on sight now.  
He knew  
it would be this way,  
but that doesn't make the sting  
any less.

The images sear  
like acid through his head, things  
he couldn't see at the time:  
the Cutter's face bursting like an overripe plum, his own gloves  
dyed red and juicy...

what  
did he almost _do?_

There's a bottle on the table, just simple wine  
the strongest thing he had around after the last  
Red Death-shunning party.  
He hasn't touched it, he didn't really want it  
from the minute he set it down  
but still the tide inside the sleek bottle  
has found a way to sink  
just a little,  
not his doing.  
A high, splintering crash  
and Bruce's head spins that way.

On the tile, spreading dark wine stains and bits of glass.  
"Ehheh…whoops…" The Joker slumps against a floor-to-ceiling window,  
his lanky form a spider scrawl  
in Gotham's cold, laser glow.  
Bruce crosses the room in four hurried strides  
and catches him before he hits floor.  
The Joker hangs in his grip like a thin felled aspen, making no attempt  
to do anything else.  
He grumbles, "You're…always there to catch me, aren't you?  
You are…the wiinnnd beneath my wings…"  
Even though he saw it, Bruce is wondering.  
"Did you really only have the two glasses?"  
He's trying to wrap his head around  
all this:  
first the Cutter, the near-blackout  
and now  
the Joker  
drunk.  
At the end of the day, he supposes, even they  
who are supposed to be  
something more than men,  
are all only the same rough stitches  
able to fray and unravel.

The Joker coughs,  
his makeup isn't completely gone, still a few smudges  
stubborn as roadkill stains. "Not much…drinker, guess…"  
"When was your last meal?"  
"Mmm, dunno…last night?"  
Bruce winces, betting there's still one more  
layer of gravedirt here.  
"Have you _ever_ had a drink before?"  
The Joker lifts his head, grin so wide  
Bruce can almost smell shit on his breath. "_Nope_. Never in my life."  
"What were you _thinking_?"  
"I was _thinking_… we were both going to get  
completely _snockered_  
and do _crazy_ things to each other that'd haunt us forever.  
But _yooouuuuu_,  
you _always_ have to hold out on me…  
always always al-"

Bruce sighs.  
"What do you want, Joker?"

"Weeellll…I _want_  
the _room_ to stop goin' round an' round  
aaannnndd…  
I want _you_."  
Bruce spins the Joker so they face each other, clutching him by the shoulders  
while the clown just sags.  
"You know that's not what I mean."  
Here it comes, let loose by something  
much less soothing on  
hard nights than booze  
but he _has_ to talk, besides he needs  
something to focus out of  
the nightmare that just happened. "What _am_ I to you?"  
"I jus' told you."  
"No. Why're you… doing this with me?" _To _me.  
The Joker's laugh is harsh. "So I can say I've fucked the Batman up the ass, why else?"  
Bruce's nails dig into the Joker's arms  
and the Joker winces more than he would  
if he was sober. "Hey. Hey, now. Look. I don't…  
I don't know any more than you do, okay?"  
"But you don't want me gone."  
The Joker shrugs. The words snag, but the alcohol  
helps them to slide. "I guess…Without you, I'm just…one shoe."  
"That's a funny way of putting it."  
"It's true."  
"You know you're not really my type, Joker."  
"Maybe." A chuckle. "But I'm _perfect_ for you. And ya know why?  
'Cause I'll never _heal_ you. With me,  
you can go on doin' what you do and you'll never have to worry about having to  
_give up_ what you are  
or getting bogged down with something like _feelings_.  
I give you something to keep fighting, something to keep the _Batman_ happy, and _then_  
I'm your squeezy …stress relief toy,  
so you can somehow scr_rrape_ through the day.  
But, as jobs go, 'snot the _worst_ I've ever-"

Bruce nudges his thigh between the clown's,  
into a sudden heat.  
The Joker leans into him and groans.  
Bruce kisses him on the forehead, not even caring  
about the paint he tastes. How he wishes  
he had something else  
to call this man.  
"You're not just that. You _know_ that."  
It's not much to say, but  
for right now  
it's enough.

Bruce's bed appears out of nowhere  
bumping against the backs of their legs,  
the slightest shift of their weight  
and they topple back.  
Their fingers fumble, catching on  
buttons and creases.  
Restrictions  
thoughts, clothes  
soon gone.  
Bruce's hand travels low, the Joker's fingers crush over his  
to make him squeeze hard,  
saliva thickens and breath comes harsh  
as they melt into  
the familiar, dark  
depths of each other.

Afterward  
the Joker lies awake  
not _quite_ so drunk as he appeared.  
He wonders  
when _he_ became  
the only solid foundation the "Dark Knight"  
has to rest his head on.  
What he wants from Bruce  
is whatever he can get  
that flares strongest, be it hate, desire, or love.  
And, fate so odd and fickle, now he has  
just the right amounts  
of each.  
Then he too slips away,  
routinely littering behind him through  
the ghastly nadirs of his brain,  
new and terrible whims to be chased  
tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Last chapter. Thank you so, so much to everyone for all your reviews. Thank you for sticking with me. Much appreciated.

* * *

The Joker wakes up grimacing  
in the feeble morning light.  
His mouth feels fuzzy, and there's a pitchfork army  
playing hopscotch on his eyeballs. What the_ hell?_  
And there's Bruce, bruised but looking  
fresh as new Kleenex, inner beasts purged, for now. Maybe.  
"I didn't say 'thank you,' Joker."  
The Joker winces. "Do it without the _souuunnd_…"  
Bruce fishes him some painkillers  
from a drawer that's overflowing with them  
then starts to rub his back.  
His hand slips just a little  
and flash-quick, the Joker tears away  
like he's been scorched.  
And Bruce realizes he's discovered something  
more than a little interesting:

the Joker  
is  
ticklish.

No mercy.

A yelp and the clown is curling into a ball  
trying vainly to protect the parts of himself  
he never wanted anyone to find.  
His laughter bubbles like champagne, for once  
more infectious than jarring  
and Bruce is laughing too  
as they roll together on the bed.  
The Joker squirms out of reach and sits up  
grin manic, even for him  
a dancing, unfiltered joy only obtained by most through the use  
of pure white powders or flower-filled needles.  
Bruce is almost disturbed. "What?"  
"Made ya _laugh_."  
Then playfulness turns rough,  
the hunger is up again.  
Bruce presses the Joker down into the bed,  
feeling the long pale legs locking  
like jaws around his waist.  
Head wrapped in the moans  
being lost into his throat, Bruce hears no other sound  
but some instinct  
tells him to look up

and all the air  
seems to suck out of the room.

Alfred

_Alfred_

holding a tray,  
every clawmark  
of age on his face  
slowly sliding off into horror.

The Joker's face is unpainted, but his hair is  
still faintly green, and besides  
Alfred has spent enough time on this Earth  
to read more of men than faces.  
Bruce knows only the finest discipline  
jungles of burning flesh had to offer  
is what has kept that tray of fresh coffee, eggs, fruit  
from suddenly succumbing to gravity.  
The silence shrills needle-sharp  
until finally broken  
by the click of the Joker's tactless tongue.

That little gesture is the razor  
to Alfred's bonds. Only his legs move  
as he backs stiffly out.

Then Bruce is jumping up, tripping over his pants  
as he pulls them on without stopping,  
and dashes out after.  
Left alone,  
the Joker lies back  
stretched and lazy, tonguetip dabbing  
a thoughtful lip.  
It's too bad, those eggs sure smelled good.

Bruce runs into the hall, skidding to a stop  
at Alfred's turned back.  
"Alfred…"  
Alfred whirls, Bruce has never seen  
such a look in the old man's eye.  
Alfred doesn't ask, he just always _knows_  
and he knows enough.  
"Master Wayne, how long has this been going on? _How long?!"_  
How can any words hold up  
this crumbling collsseum? But still he tries,  
"Nothing's changed, Alfred."  
"You'll forgive me if I _fail_ to see how that could be."  
"Nothing's changed," Bruce repeats, the words tasting  
like empty thin shells  
even in his mouth. "He _will_ be brought to justice one day."  
"But not before you've finished fucking with him, is that right?!"  
Bruce should be shocked,  
but he stands silent, steely  
and Alfred, who always knows  
realizes what's happened  
even if Bruce doesn't, and the thought  
throws a sickly gray wave over his sight.  
"Sir," he cries, "the people of Gotham-!"  
"_I have done _enough_ for the people of this damned city!"_  
Alfred's jaw claps shut, tongue scurrying back as if to escape  
from the smoldering sparks in his master's eyes.  
Even when Batman dawned, Alfred never felt fear  
he always still recognized  
what was beneath the monster's mask. But now…  
"Sir…" A whisper, one last attempt to bring  
something familiar  
back to those eyes. "Miss _Dawes."_  
But even that name, once the only thing  
that could chip the armor and prove the heart  
still beat underneath  
brings no reaction.  
"I haven't lost sight of what's important."  
"No, Master Wayne," says Alfred,  
"for once, the only thing you haven't lost sight of  
is what's important to _you_."  
Bruce's smile  
is bitter bile.  
"Batman's infallible, but…you've always known  
_I'm_ not."

It's odd.  
Bruce is aware  
if this had happened  
just a few months, weeks ago  
he would have crumpled, Alfred's censure the destruction of the levee  
against the knowledge  
of no justification, no excuse, _nothing_, and  
and the of vinegar his own self-hatred  
would have dissolved him into the floor, maybe this time  
never to get back up.  
But something _is_ different.  
The flood behind the wall  
has evaporated, just like his fear of the bats.  
Last night, his rescue from the edge, is a part  
but the rest  
he's not sure.

Alfred, on the other hand, can see just what it is.

He looks slightly over Bruce's shoulder, as if at something it'll take more  
than three bottles of cleaner to erase.  
The Joker is still there  
wearing Bruce's robe, cocked against the doorway,  
watching them as a cat watches  
any inane human squabbles.  
"I'm still me, Alfred," Bruce says softly, a final weak grasp  
for what he feels falling away.  
"What would you have me do, Master Wayne?"  
Bruce smiles again, just a mirthless flicker.  
"Endure,  
same as you always do.  
And if you can't…I'll understand."  
Alfred stands there. He remembers the old saying,  
about the abyss that no man  
can stare into for long,  
without being sucked down as well. Then he glances out the windows  
at the city  
that so needs a hero,  
or at least as close as it can get.  
At last he nods. "I'll send the plans for the modifications to the new Tumbler, sir."  
For the first time, he's not talking  
to Bruce Wayne  
only to the shadowed other side of the coin.  
He walks away to the elevator.  
"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says softly, knowing  
it doesn't make a difference  
if the old man hears him or not.  
Alfred stops and turns back.  
"Sir…  
my faith in Batman still remains."  
Bruce nods  
and the doors shut between them.

Bruce heads back into his room and sits heavily  
down on the bed's edge.  
Just knowing that you can stand something  
doesn't make it  
any easier.  
Now, there's nothing left but the darkness  
of the suit,  
the night,  
and the Joker.  
But  
even as he cups his face to mourn  
his last old bond,  
he can't help but feel  
strangely  
free.

For once, the Joker keeps his tongue reined in.  
He settles against Bruce's back, feeling the turmoil  
surging there beneath muscle.  
He can wait,  
Bruce is drained, but before too long  
that righteous possession, the unquenchable drive  
misplaced though it is  
that the Joker loves so, that he _feeds_ off, will return  
fiercer than ever, finally cast off  
from its last daylight shackles  
and he'll be there  
to meet it  
head-on.

Until then,  
they rest.

* * *

Please, please, please send me feedback on this chapter. How did I do with Bruce and Alfred? And yes, I know it may be out of character for Alfred to say "fuck," but I could hear him saying it. Maybe it just shows how shocked and mad he really was. Also, Bruce's feelings about the city and how he's done enough for it draw more on his emotions from my story "Toxins."  
As to why Alfred was there, let's say when Bruce didn't come home to the manor last night he figured where he would be and went to make him breakfast.

Thank you.

Also, all my "Batman Begins" stories are moving to "The Dark Knight" category. And I will soon have the first chapter of a longer chaptered fic up. Do. You. Want. It?


End file.
